Extraordinary
by Wanda A. Streigh
Summary: She was ordinary. As a Muggle, she was painfully aware that there were parts of his life she couldn't have access to. But she was an obstinate girl, and she clung to this extraordinary feeling she had for that brooding, cynical, marvelous boy.
1. Chapter One: Raindrops Keep Falling

Chapter One: **Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head**

I was eight when I had my first encounter with Severus Snape.

It was a rainy June afternoon, and I wanted nothing more than to huddle in my favorite tunnel on the neighborhood playground and read. My boots sloshed noisily through the puddles as I trudged down the shabby, empty street of Spinner's End. I ambled along cheerily, humming to myself, my head nestled under my hood for protection against the onslaught of raindrops that fell in torrents from the overcast sky.

Every now and again my foot would catch upon a brick of the uneven cobbled street and I would stumble forward, but I'd catch myself midair and continue forward, past worn old brick houses and fizzling streetlamps.

This, I decided, was my favorite type of weather. The rain was cool and comforting on the skin of my legs, a welcome reprieve from the usual heat of summer.

I extended my arms and closed my eyes, relishing the pattering of the rain and its fresh, natural smell (which somewhat covered the familiar reek of garbage from the nearby river). I promptly tripped and had to again find my balance quickly before my head could collide with the ground. In that moment, with my arms pin wheeling madly, I likely had the appearance of a furious red windmill; my scarlet jacket, five sizes too big, hung loosely from my body, and the too-long sleeves swished franticly with the movement of my arms.

_It was a splendid jacket_, Mom would say. We had bought it for a third of its original price at some department store a year or two ago, and it would last me several more years. It was the color of blood, already worn and torn in places where I had fallen or brushed against something sharp. Mom would tell me I looked whimsical in it, strands of dark brown hair falling from under the hood, my round blue eyes fixed upon her. _Her own Little Red Riding Hood_, she would say, _fresh out of the books I always read_.

She always had a way to put a positive spin on things.

If Mom and I had to walk to the local library, as we often did, or go to and from the nearby grocery story on foot, lugging grocery bags with a month's worth of food, it was because the day was fine or the afternoon breeze ever so refreshing, and most certainly not because we couldn't afford transportation.

But, most of the time, the day was not fine, and the afternoon breeze was bothersome, flinging the things we carried wildly about. Somehow, though, Mom seemed not to notice.

She wouldn't notice I was gone that afternoon, either. She had gone off to visit Grandpa in the hospital.

_He's just a tad ill_,_ Vivian._ Mom had said in an upbeat tone that was a bit too shrill.

But he wasn't. He was dying.

I could tell from Mom's labored breathing when she talked about it, the small lines that would wrinkle her forehead and the way she would try in vain to smooth them out with the tips of her fingers. I didn't fully grasp death then; it was a distant, mysterious thing that surrounded old people and tragic accidents. But it always made me fidgety and uneasy—the way the adults would talk in hushed voices about it with wide, furtive eyes.

She had gone out that day, sometime around noon. My eyes still bleary from sleep, I had muttered a feeble goodbye and half-heartedly munched on the bowl of stale, month-old cereal she'd given me. The house was much too quiet after that; Dad had already left for work, and the silence seemed to resonate throughout the house, an unsolicited blaring in my eardrums.

And so I found myself slogging through the rain, turning from Spinner's End onto another street lined with dull, decrepit houses on my way to the neighborhood playground. I was content. Was I content? I was preoccupied. My house key jingled merrily from somewhere within the immense depths of my jacket pocket, clunking against the reading light I had brought or my copy of _Nancy Drew _from time to time.

I reached the end of the road and went forward into the playground. Past the rusted monkey bars and the broken see-saw, through the overgrown grass I went, my hands stuffed in my pockets.

There was my tunnel…I called it mine, though, in truth, it was public property. It was my comfort zone, a concrete cylinder, hollowed in the middle. It was a place into which I would retreat on sunny days, when Mom was busy with bills or I just wanted to get out of the house. I would lie there often, sometimes reading a tale of thrill and adventure from a musty-smelling library book, sometimes lethargic, my eyes half-closed, not thinking about anything at all.

My tunnel was always empty, and nobody bothered me there. On an ordinary day_, _I could hear the squeals of kindergarteners as I read, the shrieks and groaning and laughter of the usual bunch of kids as they shoved each other, laughed at each other, clamored to have their turn on the slide or the swing or the what-have-you.

But that day was not an ordinary day; or rather, it was, just not for me. The only sound was the rhythmic drumming of the rain. And within the dark recesses of my tunnel, I saw the outline of a boy.

That was the day I first encountered Severus Snape.

That was the day I first encountered my future husband.

**Author's Note**:

Hello, dear reader.

Oddly, the idea of this first popped into my head a few months ago while I was bored out of my mind during English class, staring out the window after hearing "Judas" by Lady Gaga. My thought process—it is a strange thing indeed.

Anyway, the idea for this festered in my mind for a while, and then poof! Out came the Harry Potter movie just recently. Of course, I'd already read the book, but the thing that really struck me while I was watching the movie…that is to say, besides Neville's badassery (squee)…is Snape's status as an antihero. So, I resurrected my thought and here it is before you.

Leave reviews if you so choose. : )

Hope you enjoyed this chapter.

There'll be more chapters of this story later. I am rather prone to distraction and writer's block, but please endure with me and be patient. If you'd be so kind, you could check out my other story (which is still in progress, mind you). Thanks for reading and hope to see you next chapter.


	2. Chapter Two: Weary, Wary

Chapter Two: **Weary, Wary**

_Get out._

That was my first thought. I was territorial- I admit it. I was a withdrawn and self-absorbed child.

Ridiculous, isn't it, how vehemently attached I was to something so trivial. To something that wasn't mine.

A bitter wind swept back my hood, and I crinkled my nose in disdain as rainwater assaulted my face. Unbidden, trickling through my hair. Unwelcome because I was unprepared.

_Get out._

What could I do, though? Nothing.

Or rather, something, but with little hope of success. I lacked the authority or the persuasiveness or the brute force to enforce my will; somewhere along the line, the comfortable but flimsy veil of childish ignorance had fallen, and I had become aware of my lack of charisma, my social rigor mortis and botched encounters, my failure to convey and convince and conquer.

I stood blankly with a resonating internal hollowness and a blush—was it from repressed anger or embarrassment?— burning on my cheeks.

I had too much pride to call myself shy. Reserved, awkward perhaps, but never shy—that would imply that I was feeble and bashful, two qualities I didn't want to associate with myself.

But looking back, the truth was that I was both. Quietly, I flinched away from confrontation, judgment, and rejection. I hated this-my inability to confront people. And, quietly, I hated _them_ for their inability to empathize and react.

Stupid, don't you think? I was at the tender young age when I was still consumed by vain self-pity. I was old enough to diagnose the imposing opinions of others through their respective cues. Old enough to brood over the flicker of an eye away (always away), an arrogant quirk of an eyebrow, a gloating smirk…even a stiff, sickly-sweet smile because I knew what they meant and what consequences awaited. But too young—far too young—to not give a damn, to discard the luxurious timidity to which I clung and forge ahead regardless of my qualms.

These feelings, undefined and unarticulated, simmered precariously as, indignant but resigned, I stepped backward. The mud squelched sickeningly in complaint beneath my feet.

Within the cement tunnel, the boy stirred. There was a rustle, and then a pair of dark, weary, wary eyes glimmered bleakly and met my gaze.

I started. Indecisive, I froze. My fight-or-flight instinct was suspended altogether; I was a deer in the headlights, rigid and tense.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

I know I am a horrible procrastinator. My apologies, dear reader.

Rest in peace, Sammy, my eldest, dearly beloved cat. I love you and will always remember you.


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